Page 7
Lyr gets to his feet, still wrapped in the cloak, and takes his seat at the table.
“What is your name?” the woman says.
“Lyr, My Lady,” Lyr replies.
“Sire is fine. No one in the Imperial Army is a lady. I’m Trysta. Trysta the Plumian, if you want to be formal.”
Lyr nods, “Yes, Sire,” he replies. He eats some more of the bread. It’s good.
“You are hungry,” says Trysta. “Drink too, calm your spirit a little.” She passes Lyr a cup of frothy ale. Lyr takes a drink. It seems to slow his clattering heart. “I know that whore’s son who took you seems like a fearsome tyrant,” Trysta says. “And I have certainly believed so in my time. But you are safe with Damon. As safe as anyone can be in this world. He is a good man. If he took you, he means to protect you. And he will.”
Lyr takes another sip of ale and as he does, Damon emerges from his sleeping area. He has replaced the leather jerkin with a loose silk shirt. His bone-short hair glistens with moisture. Lyr feels warmth rush to his face.
Perhaps it is the ale.
“Lyr,” Damon says, then pauses. “That’s right, isn’t it? Lyr?” he adds in Juran.
“Lyr,” says Lyr. “Yes.”
He points towards the curtain in front of the bed. “You want to wash too?”
Lyr nods. He gets up from the table and walks through the curtain. Damon’s wooden bed is even larger than it looked from the glimpse he caught earlier. Lyr pauses to touch the black fur that covers it. It’s coarse, but warm. Several skins sewn together.
Wolf, Lyr thinks.
Lyr walks over to a high wooden table where Damon has set the golden bowl. The water is still quite warm and he uses one of the cloths to wash the grime off his face and hands. He removes the cloak, then takes the torn white alit and repositions it so it covers him more decently. His bare feet are filthy. He takes the bowl from the table and sets it on the floor. Then he sits on Damon’s bed and puts his feet into the bowl.
On the other side of the curtain, he can hear Damon and Trysta speaking Artemian. Lyr can follow their conversation quite easily.
“You will be glad to get home to your wife?” Trysta says. “Will she have any concerns when you turn up with a male whore in your cart of spoils?”
“I will not turn up with a male whore. He will not be a whore. He cannot be in Attar if he is to survive. I will put him in my kitchens.”
“But you will keep him?”
Lyr leans down and uses the cloth to wash his legs clean where they are dirty from the trek through the conquered city. He has neat rings of scars on his legs. Below the knees, they were mostly done with Queen Jareleezi’s sharpest blade. He can feel the raised bumps of them as he washes himself. He knows it hurt when she carved them into him, but he can barely remember the pain.
“Inez is very fair,” says Trysta, on the other side of the curtain. “And young. Selim could not have found you a better wife.”
“He could. I should have asked for you,” Damon says.
Trysta laughs. “You know very well you would never have been allowed to marry me, Damon. I am a Plumian warrior slave. You are the son of the heir to the Imperial throne. Your father cares a great deal about the matches his sons make. Even the bastards. So instead of being the sweet wife, who you struggle to bed, I will be leaving tomorrow for Ik-Sundal.”
“They are already moving on Ik-Sundal?”
“That is the rumour. A few staying here to begin the work on Pellex and bring Jur-Mattan into the arms of the empire. But many more moving south. Additional troops are already on their way from the barracks in Lunatum and Naranda. They march through Fanost. I will fight on for this blasted army into the desert, while you travel home to your sweet new life.”
“I would take you with me if I could, Trysta.”
“I know you would. But truly, Damon Darekul, what is there for me in Azuria apart from a bloody execution when Doroth Zain and your cruel God discover my sins of the body?”
“I will miss you a great deal.”
“I don’t suppose you’d consider staying? I am sure your tantrum in front of Prince Atticul would easily be forgiven in return for you leading the Imperial Army into battle in Ik-Sundal.”
“I am sure it would. Selim has offered me a great fortune to stay. But the term was twenty years and I have served him for twenty and two.”
It’s getting dark in the tent. The only other light is from two candles on the table and only a little of it makes it through into the sleeping space. Lyr lies back on Damon’s bed, wolfskin prickling through the alit. He listens idly to Trysta saying, “Strange that someone with such a talent for battle should have no real taste for it.”
